Wanting
by JupiterDelphinus
Summary: Jessica swayed as she walked, bottle of whiskey in her hands as she made her way down familiar streets. It was supposed to be better, god damn it. She'd done it, she killed him, she was finally free, and it was supposed to be better, it was supposed to be better, it was supposed to be better. Part 2 of "Tell Me"
1. Jessica

Jessica swayed as she walked, feet shuffling loosely against the pavement bottle of whiskey in her hands as she made her way down familiar streets. It was supposed to be better, god damn it. She'd done it, she killed him, she was finally free, or was supposed to be, or whatever, and _it_ was supposed to be better, it was supposed to be better, _it was supposed to be better._ But it wasn't and god, it was like she couldn't even look people in the goddamn face anymore. She'd killed a man. Killed a man of her own free will and not of anyone's goddamn _want_ and it didn't matter that it was to save people from the devil himself. She'd killed a man. And it didn't matter it was her or him. She'd killed a man, and Trish was there.

And Trish, _god,_ Trish. Watching him shove his tongue down her throat, watching her shove her tongue down his, watching her _want_ to, and it made her sick, god, so fucking sick it was like a worm eating away at her insides. She swallowed the thought of the word each time, but it came unbidden anyway. _Jealousy._ Because she tried. _She tried._ She did everything in her power to forget. To forget. To wipe the memory from her brain but it was searing in there like a goddamn brand. And that made her sick too. But not sick enough. And the memory, for all the alcohol, didn't dull enough. It just wouldn't go away. And everything was so fucking hard. So hard.

The bow of her back. The sight of her hair mussed. The hold of her fingers on her arm. Her skin, her skin, _god_ her skin.

Before Jessica realized it, she'd emptied her bottle, her third of the night, and found herself on the far side of Trish's building, the spot where she could jump up, _fly up,_ and knock on Trish's glass door. It was supposed to be better now. Everything was supposed to go away. That's what was supposed to happen, even if Jessica had never really harbored any beliefs that killing a man would _release her_ from this miserable hell of a life, she wanted to hope. She had wanted to hope. She had hoped. Hoped the guilt and disgust gnawing away at her would lessen. Hoped she'd be able to look at herself in the mirror again. Hoped she'd be able to look at Trish again. But it didn't work like that.

The way she gasped. The way she begged. The way she had wanted, wanted, _wanted_.

And the way Jessica had wanted. The way Kilgrave had wanted. The way Jessica wants.

She jumped, flew, kind of, and found herself outside the glass. There was Trish, and it came back full force. Had this been how she had been sitting that night? That night before Jessica had come to her? That night before she had known? That night they had fucked?

The scent of her arousal. The taste of her sweat. Jessica's name on her lips. Her lips.

Jessica blinked away the thought, wanted to punch it out of her own skull. She looked in on Trish, sitting on her couch, red wine in her hand, bottle on the table. She was furrowing her brow and god, Jessica could just hear Dorothy's goddamn admonishment ringing in her ears like the fucking woman was there next to her. She watched as Trish lifted her brow and rubbed at the creases. Maybe Trish had heard that she-devil as well. Jessica chuckled. Trish took a sip of her wine.

The wine in her hand. The touch of her fingertips. The bruise on her wrist. Jessica's bruise. Jessica's doing. Jessica's want.

Jessica mimicked the motion on her forehead. She was furious. She was furious and stupid and so many, many things all rolled into one and the alcohol had always helped but tonight, tonight the universe came rushing to meet her and the world crashed down and everything that was his want was gone. Jessica was left with herself and the memories of wants that were not hers but were, weren't, _god_ they were.

She raised her fist and knocked on the glass. The door shattered, and Jessica looked at her hand like it had betrayed her. "Fuck, Jessica!" Trish said, having jumped at the sound, the shock. She looked maybe like she had seen a ghost. Jessica considered a moment. Maybe she looked like she'd just vomited. Maybe Trish felt as sick as she felt. Maybe Trish was flooded with the memory like she was. Maybe Trish wanted like she wanted. She took a step over the threshold of the doorway and her boots crunched on the broken glass. Trish looked at her. Jessica looked back.

"We never talk about it," She slurred, waving her hand through the air, bottle slipping from her grip and thudding dully on the floor next to her feet. At least she hadn't broken anything. "We never talk about it," she repeated, prompted by Trish's silence. And the look on her face, god, Jessica was too drunk to figure out what the fuck it meant but it felt like this conversation had been on the tip of her tongue for forever and she wanted it out of her, she wanted it out of her, god, she _wanted_.

"Go home, Jessica," Trish said coolly, raising her hands in front of herself. "You're drunk."

And god, fuck, she was, but what did that matter? What did any of it matter? She'd just killed a man. She had killed him and, "It was supposed to get easier," She mumbled, stepping further into the room. Trish didn't back away.

"You're drunk," She repeated, like it was a defense, sharp. And maybe Trish didn't want to talk about it at all. Maybe she didn't want to think about it. Maybe now, this time, with Jessica's want and Jessica's will, and Jessica's intention it was more frightening than it had been before.

"We never talk about it," Jessica said again, stepping even closer. Close enough to smell lingering perfume. She could even see Trish's jaw clench, could see her shiver and strengthen her stance, as though her strength could ever compare.

"No," Trish seethed, eyes bright and angry in the light of her apartment. "We don't because you never talk to me unless you need something."

"I need something," Jessica said, and her breath moved the strands of Trish's hair closes to her face.

This, apparently, was more frightening a thing than Jessica's advance, because Trish quickly receded from her and Jessica had to fight to let her go, the memory of grabbing Trish's arm flashing in her mind angry and unwanted. Her life replaying itself in her head. His want replaying itself in her head. Only there was no more _his want_ , only her own. Only her own.

"Trish," she said, and hadn't they lived this life before?

"Jess," Trish said, her back to her and her arms wrapping around her torso. "Jess, don't."

And god, it was the same, it was the same as that night, it was the same as everything, but it was so different, it was all supposed to be different. Trish turned around and Jessica could see it again, the same as she saw it that night, that night before everything was supposed to be different, the fear. The fear. She nodded her head and the world spun. She stumbled before righting herself. Trish hadn't moved.

"It isn't real, Jessica," Trish said quietly. "It wasn't real because it wasn't you."

The words burned through her more than the memory, god, the memory of the way she had felt, the way she had clenched around her, the way she had begged and writhed and gasped out Jessica's name like it was the only word in the world worth saying. Like Jessica was the only person in the world worth wanting and now, now that it was Jessica's want, it wasn't enough. Things were supposed to get better.

"It's real," Jessica managed. And the words came despite everything. She'd already told Trish she loved her and now here she was, drunker than she'd probably ever been, and now it was only her want and her lack of want but it felt just as confusing. Felt just like she couldn't help saying it. Felt like she had no choice but to say it because if she didn't talk about it now she'd die. If they never talked about it, everything, everything would be pointless, and it didn't matter, none of it mattered, but things were supposed to be different and now she was a killer of her own want and she wanted, she wanted, she wanted.

"It never was, Jess," Trish said, taking a tentative step towards her. "It was him, it was always him and I know that, and it's okay and—"

"It's not _fucking_ okay, Trish," Jessica spat. And the anger came easily to hide all the hurt welling up through her. "It's not fucking okay because it's real."

Trish shook her head and she looked beautiful in her sadness. "No," she answered. "No, because it wasn't you. It isn't real, it isn't. You're just confused and—"

"I'm not confused, okay?" Jess said angrily. "I know I'm not confused because I fucking killed him, okay? And I've been, whatever, _free_ , from his mind control _bull shit_ for a fucking year, but that doesn't stop me from fucking thinking about it. Every fucking time I look at you. And he's gone, Trish, he's finally gone. But the fucking _want_ , okay? is still there."

And Trish just looked at her, but she'd said it. She'd said it. The want, her want, it hadn't gone away, and it had been there before him and here it was now after and it was too late to ignore it because Jessica knew, Jessica _knew_ , that it was Trish's want as well. Jessica had known. Jessica had always known. And the want she had hoped would go away in her tidal wave of self-hatred and disgust hadn't. It had intensified, the one memory of the one thing she had wanted and never wanted to do, and it was just as confusing as before and she hated it, hated the want, hated herself, and those taunting words, _I love you_ , rang in her ears along with the moans because she was supposed to die. She was supposed to die or go to jail or end up someplace far away and she was never supposed to see Trish again but here she was anyway.

Jessica's fury couldn't hide her tears. And Trish, god, Trish just stepped forward and wiped them away. She was gentle with her. She was always too gentle, and Jessica wanted to cry out her love, wanted to sob into her, wanted to finally let go an be weak. Instead, she just looked at Trish. There had been enough weakness lately for an entire lifetime and just because Jessica's lack of control had reared its ugly head didn't mean the absolute pain of Trish's denial would ream a confession out of her. Would make her cry. Would make her love easily. Trish was always too good, too beautiful, too gentle; Jessica could smell her perfume, could see the way the light played off the blonde of her hair, could see the pink of her lips and the memory, the memory, the memory.

"Come on," Trish said, and her voice was gentle, too gentle, and this was the version of that night before all of this that Jessica hadn't lived. "Let's get you to bed."

It didn't sound like an invitation, but what could Jessica expect. Even if it had been Kilgrave's want at the time, it was still Jessica's body, and Jessica's hand, Jessica's lips. Trish, who had believed her, who had understood, who had done everything with all her money to help, she still couldn't erase that it had been Jessica who had raped her. Or wanted to. Or would have.

"You're drunk," Trish said lightly, her hand soft in Jessica's palm "You'll forget about all this in the morning."

But in the morning, Jessica knew her want would still be there. Her memory would still be there. And even if she didn't remember this conversation, she would know that the only reason she would have showed up at Trish's door was to have it. And the memory of the night he had sent Jessica to Trish and before now, now when everything was supposed to be different but wasn't, it would burn its way through her body on her loneliest nights and it would eat away at the pit of her stomach, her want. Her want all this time and for all these years and how, more than anything, she wanted it to be different, but that had been stolen from her. The sight of Trish, the sound of her, the feel of her, the want, tainted forever. She had wanted it, god how she had wanted it, god how she wanted it still.

But more than anything, she had wanted it to be different.


	2. Trish

They never talk about it. Then again, Jessica never really talks about anything. Not _her_ Jessica. Or, still the same Jessica, still Jessica who she loves, loved, loves and who she would do anything for. But she's not the same. There's a shadow, a darkness cast over their relationship, a dark thing that hangs over them both like a cloud. More so Jessica than Trish, because when Trish looks at her she sees it. Sees the memory of what happened between the two of them and whatever other memories are swirling just beneath the surface and Jessica almost always looks like she's about to vomit and Trish isn't sure if it's just the alcohol or if it's those memories, their memories, if looking at _Trish_ is what makes Jessica want to vomit.

But he's dead. He's dead and she'd even seen it with her own eyes. And Trish had hoped beyond hope that it meant that the two of them were free, but the cloud hanging over them hasn't dissipated at all. It's gotten heavier, and it's all Trish can to do forget, to forget, to forget everything. The way her hands felt and the way her lips felt and the way she had wanted it after everything. The way, after everything, the memory stung and was fuzzy around the edges. Like a dream. Like a nightmare. And it was everything Trish could do to keep from crying. She'd cried about it before. So many times. Too many times.

So she sat on her couch, the same couch as it had been that night, and drank her red wine. And everything felt so much the same, and so much different. But Jessica, Jessica, that was who had changed. Even though she hadn't. But Trish knew things weren't better, not in anyway that anyone had wanted. They might even be worse. Because no matter how many people Jessica saved, Trish knew her, and knew she'd only see the one she'd taken. It didn't matter who it had been. She'd killed someone. She'd killed someone and the relief that Trish had felt when Jessica had said I love you was so quickly overshadowed by satisfaction when she heard his neck snap. And the quick nausea at what he'd made her do with him was replaced with nausea at the recollection of exactly what Jessica must have lived through.

As much as Trish had prayed that Jessica's decision would help her, she knew better. Even if she had wanted so desperately for things to work out for Jessica. For them both. For Jessica. Always and mostly for Jessica. But that selfishness of want wouldn't leave her and the memory of that night so long ago woke her up some nights in her bed. The same bed as that night. The same sheets. The same everything. The same nothing. Trish always ignored the fact that Jessica thought she was going to die the night she killed him.

She drank her red wine and felt the scowl on her forehead that had come unbidden. Wrinkles, her mother would say. She rubbed at the skin absentmindedly, and that was when the window of her balcony shattered. She started angrily from the couch, and she thought she'd probably never get comfortable with loud noises ever again. Or comfortable with anything.

"Fuck, Jessica!" She yells. And it is Jessica and it will always be from now on. But Trish can see this Jessica well, and is all to familiar with the way Jessica looks when she's drunk and Trish wants to kick her out. After everything, Jessica still can't come to her without something else. She can't come to her with just herself. And Jessica, stupid Jessica, hasn't forgiven herself, even if Trish had. She had the moment it happened. And she had tried to move on, even forgiven another who had been controlled. And Trish remembered more than anything the look on Jessica's face when she'd seen Simpson. Jealousy. Anger. Self-loathing. Trish could have yelled at her for her lack of understanding if she hadn't been so self-righteous.

She watches from her standing position as Jessica manages to step over the threshold of the broken doorway and her boots loosely crunch on the glass. She sways with the alcohol in her blood and Trish wants to be angry. Instead she's just sad. The wind of the outside whips it's way into the apartment and she's suddenly cold. She wonders if Jessica is too drunk to realize.

"We never talk about it," Jessica says, her words clipped to cover the alcohol. It doesn't work. She sounds so drunk it hurts Trish to think that this is how she had come. And Trish had waited for her to come back. To talk. Trish had wanted to talk but now, hearing the words, her blood runs cold because she doesn't know what Jessica really thinks about it. Because it wasn't Jessica at all. And Trish had wanted it for so many years that her desires had blurred heavily with her fear. But god, it wasn't Jessica. It wasn't. And Jessica was as much a casualty to that night between the two of them as she had been. Maybe more.

"We never talk about it," Jessica repeats. The bottle she had in her hand slips to the floor and thuds heavily. And the memory of what they don't talk about hurts Trish and it's so much like that night, so much. She doesn't cry. She can't. For Jessica.

"Go home, Jessica," She says instead of anything else, raising her hands like a shield against the girl in front of her. "You're drunk." And she is, but that doesn't mean anything to either of them. And Trish had wanted to have this conversation. But not like this. "You're drunk," She says again, and it's the only defense she has.

"It was supposed to get easier," Jessica mumbles, and her feet shuffle, passing the glass now and onto the carpet of the apartment. Everything in Trish screams at her, sees the red flags of a conversation she doesn't want. Because Kilgrave, and what he could do, it made everything fuzzy around the edges and even now, even now that he's dead, she can remember the want. The want of him, of wanting to kiss him. She had vomited earlier thinking about the want. And she knows, she knows if they have this conversation Jessica will be confused. It would have felt like, feel like it was real, and Trish doesn't think she can handle it if Jessica, beautiful, messy, drunk Jessica, could possibly know the difference. The memory of the feeling of want. It confused even her, and she hadn't experienced it for months, like Jessica had.

"You're drunk," Trish says again, and it's her only defense about the pain of what's to come because Jessica looks like she looked that night. She looks like she can't help what's coming. Like she's fighting and angry and sad and not right and Trish fights hard against the memory, but it comes. It comes. She tries to forget the coming.

"We never talk about it," Jessica says again, and she's so close now that Trish can smell the cheap whiskey on her breath. But she's so hurt and so upset and so everything all at once that she doesn't back down. And she's tired of crying.

"No," Trish says, biting. Hurt. Hurt. "We don't because you never talk to me unless you need something."

"I need something," Jessica answers. And it's low, suggestive, such a quick answer that the fear flashes through Trish like electricity. Because Jessica doesn't say things like that. She doesn't say she wants, she needs, she loves, and this Jessica has said these things so many times now that Trish feels completely off-balance. She turns her back, and for a terrifying moment she feels Jessica will reach out and yank her back, will repeat that bruise that lasted and lasted among all the others that lasted and lasted. But she doesn't.

"Trish," Jessica says, voice matching the wind whipping through the apartment. And the memory is vivid. It's more real than it had ever been since the night it happened and Trish can only parrot her words from then.

"Jess," she says, and she's fighting because this isn't what she wants. She wants Jessica as she was before. Before this, before death, before Kilgrave, just _before._ "Jess, don't."

And Jessica is staring at her and god, what she must be thinking. Must be remembering. And Trish can see the look in her eyes and it's the same hurt, the same yearning and it's terrifying. It's terrifying. And the silence is worse. The silence is the same kind of pressure that had led to kissing and sex and tears and Trish suddenly remembered more. Remembered Jessica shaking her head no, no, no on her sternum and on her chest and her stomach and her thighs. No.

"It isn't real, Jessica," She says. "It wasn't real because it wasn't you." Trish ignored the welling feeling of confusion because it had felt real. It had felt like Jessica's hands and lips and what she would have given if it had been Jessica with callouses and chapped lips instead of the stepford wife Jessica she'd been delivered against her will.

"It's real," Jessica chokes out, and Trish shakes her head violently because it wasn't her Jessica then, it wasn't. It was Kilgrave's. And Trish was remembering all the subtle things that were different. The clothes that were too expensive. The perfume. The hair product. It hadn't been Jessica, not really, no matter how much she had indulged in the fantasy. This Jessica, the drunk, angry, hurting Jessica, this was the one that was real. This was the one that was hers. And the two were just confusing themselves.

"It never was, Jess," Trish says, taking a step towards her. If she can clear this up, if she can make her understand, maybe it will be better. Maybe it all will be better. "It was him, it was always him and I know that, and it's okay and–"

"It's not _fucking_ okay, Trish," Jessica spits at her. And they're close now, and Trish can see the anger, the hurt. "It's not fucking okay because it's real."

And she said it in that way, in that sure way that Jessica says everything that she thinks she means, that it hurts. "No," she said. "No, because it wasn't you. It isn't real, it isn't. You're just confused and–"

"I'm not confused, okay?" Jessica says, and maybe it's the angriest Trish has ever heard her. And she doesn't want to hear what Jessica has to say next. "I know I'm not confused because I fucking killed him, okay? And I've been, whatever, _free_ , from his mind control _bull shit_ for a fucking year, but that doesn't stop me from fucking thinking about it. Every fucking time I look at you. And he's gone, Trish, he's finally gone. But the fucking _want_ , okay? is still there."

Trish stares at her and she knows she won't be able to convince Jessica otherwise. And god, how she wishes, how she wants it to be the truth. But the memory has become clear now, all this time later, and Trish remembers now so vividly all those little differences and they hurt her and sear now in her memory more than the pleasure. She sees Jessica crying, so she bridges the gap between them and brushes away the tears, even though that looks like it just hurts Jessica more.

"Come on," She says, and she takes Jessica by the arm. "Let's get you to bed." The two walk awkwardly through the apartment, the alcohol starting to catch up with Jessica even more than it had. She's heavy in Trish's arms, and feels, for the first time, fragile. "You're drunk. You'll forget all about this in the morning."

And Trish is grateful that Jessica will forget. Because she wishes, god, how she wishes that she was inviting Jessica to her bed in another way. Because even if the confusion is there and the messed up is there, Trish had never been forced to want Jessica. She had wanted Jessica from the start. And even if she hadn't wanted her the way she was given, the want had been real. But Jessica had been stolen from her, robbed in a way that she could never be recovered. Because even though Trish had forgiven her so long ago, Jessica would never forgive herself for how it happened. And Trish's want was still there, coiling in her stomach as she watched Jessica pass out on her sheets.

She had wanted this. Had wanted to talk. Had wanted Jessica in her bed. Had wanted for so long. Still wants. But this confusion, and this cloud, and this memory hanging over them was unable to be cleared no matter what had happened since. She wanted everything in the whole world, it felt like. She was here, but she wasn't. It was over, but it wasn't. They were free, but they weren't. And Trish wanted all these things for the two of them.

But most of all, she just wanted Jessica back.


End file.
